


The Brightest of God's Children

by Devilinthebox (princegrisejoie)



Category: Death Note
Genre: (it's REALLY mild), Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Illustrated, M/M, Mild Gore, Painter Light, Prompt Fill, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, by the amazingly talented Cinensis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrisejoie/pseuds/Devilinthebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Light is a famous artist who secretly uses body fluids in his paintings. L is an intellectual and a fine art appreciator. Their paths cross as L discovers Light is the relentless murderer the authorities have been chasing after for months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brightest of God's Children

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, there are probably tons of inaccuracies you'll have to brush off. I apologise, I absolutely am fascinated by art history but I couldn't care less about details. So. Hm.  
> For Cinensis' prompt: high Renaissance! Death Note AU with Light being a famous Artist who secretly use body fluids, especially blood, in his painting from people he kills to paint fantastic frescoes that are world-known. (...) L investigates the missing people that were Light’s victims while at the same time being a fine art appreciator and ends up buying one of Light’s paintings.  
> (also, Light is called Light in the Renaissance Era in some European country. Don't ask)  
> Enjoy~

The last thing the victims heard was the name their parents had given them. Light whispered it softly against their shivering skin. It was his way of atoning for his sin. He drained them carefully, until he could see the veins through the pallid skin.

Then, he slit their throat, hoping the pain he inflicted was biting and acute. It was. He breathed. Their death was a quiet one.

The murderer sliced the bodies apart and intoned a prayer. Light sang a lament for the souls he stole as they departed for a better, kinder world.

Iron lingered in his mouth for days. Nobody had a clue. Some even believed his gift was heaven-sent.

It reminded him of a truth he couldn't afford to forget: he was chosen.  

*

 

Art fuelled L’s obsession with immortality. Art was eternal, everlasting - and yet, it was the result of a clever mixing of paint by a gifted hand. Could the mortal soul last forever, with the correct mixing of fluids? He devoted his sleepless nights to the art of alchemy; a rather depressing activity he could only practice in the dark. His experiments had reached a dead-end, however. To advance, he had to study the human body from the inside– that meant committing a sin. L. was exceptionally intelligent. But the priests had raised him.

Alchemy proved itself to be unsatisfying, so he devoted the rest of his spare time to the study of the soul. It allowed him to broach a vast range of subjects – art, of course; humanities, literature, philology. At times, he would write about the human mind and the tendency of madness and talent to go hand in hand.

He was interested in an artist who was, he had recently discovered, also a criminal.

Before he set foot into Light’s’ workshop, L had never seen the light, true blinding brightness. It was breath-taking. He veiled his awe under a mask of aloofness. He was well used to the wonders a man’s hand could create; surely, he could remain impassive at what was only an exceptionally well-lit room.

L observed the unfinished paintings, the paint-stained canvas not yet matured into unforgettable works of art; his silence held a note of reverence.

It was said that Raffaello found his compositions exquisite. The less expert eye widened in the purest awe at the sight of his sibyls. He had a talent to depict rueful women with misty eyes. L’s favourite, however, is his painting of Saint Sebastian. Assured, angular streaks formed his agonizing body, a pained expression had been carefully etched on his face; the stomach of the educated, yet impressionable amateur could only twist in compassion for the martyr.

L, however, noticed a nasty glint in the eyes of the saint.

From Light’s Saint Sebastian, L drew a taste for cruelty and self-inflicted pain. Now that he knew Light was the murderer the authorities of the county had been chasing after for months; L felt a rush of childish excitement seizing him.

L had the intention of unveiling him.

Why he took a particular interest in this morbid series of disappearances, it is a mystery. It was fascination for an artist some believed to be an agent of God that had inexorably led L to Light’s workshop.

 “I thank you for letting me in,” L said as Light appeared on the doorstep.

L locked his eyes on him. Observing Light was like opening eyes under dawn. He saw perfect symmetry on his body and the forever lost harmony of Eden etched on his face; how could someone so beautiful be so wicked? To complete the image of angelic perfection, clouds slid in the sky so Light’s features would bathe in the blinding sunlight.

Miraculously, L did not let awe cloud his judgement.

“My patron advised me to let you in. He told me it was impossible to discourage you” The young painter answered cautiously. Light’s voice held his signature restraint. “Since I couldn’t possibly work with you harassing me, I agreed to see you.”

“I see. You hardly had any choice and you wish to see me leave as soon as I am done, is that right?”

 “Absolutely. Now, Sir, I have nothing to hide. Ask away.”

“I think I gathered all the information I needed,” L said, his voice clear.

Light blinked at him. Then, he gave a half-smile.

“Remarkable. I wish you would have realised I was innocent without my help.”

He turned his back, stared out the window for a moment. L’s voice snapped the artist out of his reverie.

“You misunderstood me, dear friend.”

“I am not your friend," Light snapped. He was facing L again, his back too straight and his eyes ablaze with affected indignation.

“No, you’re a criminal. And I will prove it.”

“That’s ludicrous. You know why people kill? For glory, money, recognition. As an artist, I have all of these. I will go down in history, I worked for the Pope and the richest families in Rome. Tell me why would I murder innocent people for? Why would I ruin everything I worked so hard to achieve?”

His line of defence seemed rather superficial to L. There was something ill in the way he craved for recognition. As geniuses went, Da Vinci was certainly of a softer sort. That Light, though, he whispered to L’s darker side. He laid his eyes on Light again and felt slightly dizzy, as if he had inhaled alcohol.

“I shall prepare a list of every rich and seemingly benevolent man who had a tendency to murder and have it send to you," L drawled.

Light bristled. “I don’t want to hear about the others. I seek harmony in my art. Beauty. I am not fond of the scent of blood.”

He was slipping away. L played the ego card. “Perhaps you’re right.  I have to admit, I cannot grasp you yet. You’re a mystery.”

“Most artists are," Light responded with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“None of them is quite as evasive as you. Some say Light is not your real name.”

Light minced to him. Elegance guided each of his movements, inevitably highlighting the vulgar carnality of his counterpart. L saw a strategy in that, some clever plan to lure his victims in his web.

“Is _L_. your real name, sir?” Light’s voice dropped to a whisper. L hummed his scent and the taste of rosewater lingered in his mouth. Through the delightful smell of roses, L distinguished iron, flesh and blood. His heart hammered in his chest, as Light said, his voice an octave higher than before:

“It’s time to say farewell.”

L was on edge and Light sensed that, and he relished the discreet, yet irrepressible fear that coursed through L’s veins.

“You’re right,” L managed, “I can’t have you arrested”

Light’s expression turned bright and strangely hopeful and an arrogant smile drifted across his lips. Desire seeped under L’s skin, burning his flesh – nothing familiar. It was far more powerful than anything he had ever felt.

“I will see you again," L promised.

He retreated to the door, glancing about one last time. His eyes met Saint Sebastian once again, and he swallowed at the sight of that glistening, sublime shade of red Light had rendered his wounds with.

“You love this one,” Light said, “Do you want it?”

There was a hint of malice in the painter’s voice. He wanted L to share his sin. Why?

“Do you want me to buy it?” L teased. He wanted to see Light snap, to push him over the edge. He tried to picture his features, twisted into a vengeful, manic mask. It was terrifying.

“I feel your desire to possess it. Nuance. I can keep it for you," Light maintained his façade but his voice lacked the usual courtesy.

“I would appreciate it greatly,” L said, feeling powerless to resist the wicked, sinful painting.

L left, his head pounding as if he had dived underwater. He felt Light’s eyes lingering over him, latching on to his clothes and ripping his skin.

 

*

[ ](http://cinensis.tumblr.com/post/122256490175/here-is-my-pen-doodle-during-injections)

L prayed that night.  He sent his assistants away _(“Surely, you could be doing something worthwhile outside, now get out”),_ locked every door in the house and kneeled.

He believed in God, but he believed in Humankind more profoundly. He believed there was a cause, a path, a fate mortals had to draw from the illusion that existence was meaningless.

Light had strayed away from his path.

He had to meet him once again.

*

 “An inspiring place to meet. Nice to see you again,” Light bowed, a palm over his heart, lips curled up in a polite smile.

He had a seraphic appearance and a blessed gift. L. would not have been surprised to discover he hid wings under his clothes.

“This cathedral is magnificent, indeed. You should hear the bells,” L said. His voice echoed off the majestic stones of the cathedral. It struck him like a divine inspiration: it was fated to end here. And it touches him to his core, the mystical beauty of their last meeting.

 “Who are you exactly?” he told Light, expecting an answer to a riddle he found himself incapable to solve.

Light stood still in the middle of the central aisle. “Not a criminal. The rest is of little importance as long as you don’t accept that premise.”

“But you are a murderer. These hands have stolen lives. Sliced bodies apart. These hands have sinned.”

L. advanced on him, swift and so quick that Light backed into the pews and almost lost his balance. He regained his composure in a heartbeat, much to L’s frustration.

“Oh, it _pains_ me," he went on, “I can’t let you walk free, can I?”

Sculptures of saints stared at them in silence. Light’s inhale was audible – shaking so slightly. It could drive anyone crazy, that fragile breath.

 “Say something,” L ordered, his voice faltering. He cursed himself for that.

As a response, Light’s hand gripped his sleeve, soft hands latching on to the fabric, creasing it nervously. L noticed Light was far less muscular than the Adonis figures he loved to paint.

“We are the brightest of God’s children, you and me,” Light announced, letting go of L’s sleeve. He turned on his heels and paced around, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stones.

L shivered. _It’s the chill of the night, nothing more_ , he thought.

“I paint beauty to forget the world is a wicked, mediocre place,” In the sky, a cloud veiled the moon. Obscurity descended, engulfed the cathedral until there was only a beam of light left, a shimmering streak between their two bodies.

“I started to paint, because the universe wouldn’t give me what I wanted. I gave everything to it, my soul, my heart, my life, my sanity. Everything I ever owned. It was enough, for a while.”

Silence. L’s hand slithered its way onto his hips, fingertips searching for the knife hidden under his clothes.

“Until one day, I started loathing my reds, my yellows, my blues. But especially the reds. How can I transform these insipid colours into something beautiful? I pondered. It kept me from sleeping. I’d wander in the house, endlessly, aimlessly. Then…my father is a physician, you knew perhaps?” Light went on, in a discordant, shivering voice. His mask was fading away, revealing the malice behind his mild-mannered attitude. He smiled a demon smile, sly and cruel.

“In the name of the sacred human life, he could dissect corpses. I found it rather unfair. Have you seen your insides? It’s gruesome, awful. One day, I stumbled upon a corpse. And that horrifying sight, this ragged skin, it planted a seed in my mind. I needed natural, perfect, pure colours. And where could I find these, if not in God’s most beautiful creations?”

Light paused. He prowled in L’s direction, reaching the only part of the cathedral that wasn’t engulfed in darkness. He stopped there, his magnificent features almost ethereal, bathed in moonlight.

“Of course, I had to find fresh bodies. Uncoagulated blood, fluids not yet festered by the reality of death. You _have_ to understand this. I know you can. I wasn’t stealing these lives. I gave back. I invented a technique and created an art. Everyone adored my work, including you! Some said I was a gift to the entire humankind. ‘Nobody else could have accomplished this’, they’d tell me. I was _born_ to do this.”

L’s heart was pounding against his ribcage. He clenched his fists, fully expecting an outburst. Light wrapped his arms around himself instead, his expression turning rueful.

“I have to admit, this technique was tiring me out. But now I see it. Perhaps, you were the missing piece. You practice alchemy, don’t you? And you understand the meaning of art. I see you, standing parallel to the Christ on his cross and inspiration strikes me again.”

He finally moved, minced toward L.

“Will you join me?” Light breathed. His throat seemed raw from having talked so much. Or perhaps it was fear?

He was reaching for L’s hand.

L took a step so they were both immersed in moonlight. He caught Light’s sublime, trembling wrist. Light repressed a shiver as long, slender fingers stroke his skin. Feeling safe and understood, the painter had closed his eyes.

Then, L pulled Light closer to him, slid, swift and quick behind him.

Light’s eyes flew open, a shiver trailing down his spine as the cold, sharp metal skimmed his neck. He wanted L’s fingers and got his knife. Light shot him an outraged glare, over his shoulder, his peaceful expression turning bitter.

“What are you doing?”

L’s lips curled into a half-smile. “I apologise. I can’t follow you on that path," and then he seized Light’s wrist with his free hand. Light didn’t try to fight back.

“You have nothing against me, except my words.”

“I know. Nobody will believe me,” L said without thinking. “However, you know my reputation. I am relentless in the pursuit of justice. I will win, in the end."

“So it’s a draw?”

L felt Light’s warm skin against his, he sensed his pulse increasing in tempo, his heart pounding in his chest. It was magnificent, even more so than the sound of bells.

“I offer you a compromise. You’re an artist, you can live wherever you want. Find another patron, elsewhere. I won’t follow you.”

It gave Light pause. “People will die.”

“I will go after you if the authorities of the county you settle in call me,” L admitted. “They probably won’t.”

Light let out a sigh that resembled a whimper. He didn’t seem to mind being held so tightly by another man. It didn’t unsettle L.

 “Don’t you fight for Justice?”

“I believe you are mad, but blessed. This might be the will of a superior being. For the first time in my life, I find myself wondering: am I rightful in my condemnation of your sins? I need to be certain of the path I follow.”

He released Light who immediately turned on his heels to face him again.

 “I will think of you as my benefactor. Bless you. Thank you.”

Sorrow gripped L’s heart.

“Farewell.”

Light left with a small incline of the head.

 _I need to be certain of the path I follow_. L had lied. He perfectly knew he had gone astray, that letting Light go was unforgivable, and that was a sin he’d carry with him forever.

Still, he smiled.

He would see Light again for sinners are reunited in the afterlife. Comfort and joy sprung from the idea that he had another chance to finally understand him. They had fooled the Gods, in a way.


End file.
